


Reporting From Heartbreak City

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Is a Good Bro, Clark is Wholesome, Daily Planet, Developing Relationship, F/M, Lois wants Superman, Newspapers, One-Sided Attraction, She is oblivious, Slow Burn, at least in the beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-07 07:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Lois wants Superman. Clark wants Lois. Superman doesn't know what to feel. Having a secret identity should come with a warning label.**On hold while I finish up a few projects.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to have multiple chapters and will be a Clark Kent/ Lois Lane love story. Fairly traditional with maybe a few non-canon twists, because I like straying off script. 
> 
> I do not own DC nor do I own its characters. The story is all mine. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and enjoy!!

**Clark**

                “Clark?”

                I blink up over the edge of my desktop monitor, eyes hazy from too many hours staring into the blue lighting. The office is darker than it should be and most everyone is gone. Except for the few of us unlucky enough to have something we needed to finish before the deadline for Friday’s paper. I have one hour and twenty-eight minutes to get this article into the drop-box or else Perry is going to skin me alive come morning.

                “Clark?” the soft voice asks again, and I jerk back to myself, forcing my eyes to the voice. Lois is draping her jacket over her arm and has her purse hooked on a slender shoulder. She looks city sleek, with only the slightest frazzle from the daily grind. Her poise is enviable.

                “Finished?” I ask lamely, because it’s all I can think to say. I’m too tired to make it look like I have a mouth or brain that works.

                “Yeah. Barely. Need any help with yours?”

                “No, no,” I say quickly, reaching for my cup of cold, stale, coffee to sip delicately, “I’m good. I’ll make it. Barely.”

                “Always cutting it close, aren’t you Smallville?”

                “You know me. I don’t seem to be able to stop myself. Procrastinator with a capital P.”

                I was a little distracted with a Tsunami clean-up in Haiti most the week. The amount of devastation brought on by the storm surge alone was catastrophic. Houses, memories, entire lives were washed away in a single natural event. Wading into the center of it, I'd not really been able to keep myself focused on the article Perry assigned me on the upcoming Metropolis Mayoral elections. It had all felt a little--petty. In comparison to someone's life being quite literally destroyed. 

                Even sitting here giving my neck a cramp and an ulcer from too much coffee, I still think it was all worth it. It will always be worth it, if I can save one more. If I can help just that much more.

                She smiles, wide and amused, then turns on the heel of one of her classic black pumps with flourish. “Well, if you finish in the next couple of hours, I’m headed down for a drink at McGuinty’s next door. I’ll buy you a beer if you drop by.”

                I open my mouth, feel nothing come out then clear my throat roughly, “Of course. Sure. If I finish.”

                Her offer is enticing and entirely platonic. I've heard her give it to countless others in the office. Lois is a friendly sort of gal who enjoys a good draft beer and some company. She likes to unwind after a long day of work. And she likes me. She likes me as Clark on a personal level as a man that she can trust to have a drink with a gripe about work to. But that's all I am as Clark. That's all I will ever be. 

                It's not enough.

                So I won’t go.

                She smiles at me with a half-grin that looks too knowing then turns for the elevators. Once again, it's back to work for me. I really do have a deadline as much as I'd like to pretend I don't and just go home. I sink dutifully back down into my swiveling office chair and immediately find myself wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. It's something I find myself wondering more and more. And I still don't know.

                On a professional level, I’m exactly where I want to be. Both as Clark and as Superman. I’m well-established now at the Daily Planet and Perry says I ‘write like an angel’. My articles are published and liked and I even enjoy what I do. As for Superman, the JLA has been running smoothly for the last five years and I’ve made a few surprising friends, Batman being one of them. The stability, purpose, and burden sharing for global justice has made my life more whole on a such a level it’s hard to describe.

                I now reach people on not just an intellectual level, but on a global one. My face is synonymous with justice and an innate sense of 'good'. 

                I’m thankful. I’m thankful for all of it.

                But despite those successes, I am _still_ just me. I’m _still_ just Clark Kent.

                A farm boy from Kansas who got bullied so badly for being different, he had to see a therapist and get put on antidepressants, which didn’t really work that great for obvious reasons. By the time high school came around, there was puberty, an overabundance of hormones to contend with, and every pitfall known to man when it came to socially awkward tendencies. Inside, I am still the desperately dorky teenager that had feet which were too big for his body and who wanted nothing more than to be accepted. I'm a hopeless romantic with no hope of ever getting more skilled at it. I don't do relationships because they require finesse and  _honesty_ , and the ability to talk to a woman without stuttering over every other sentence when it comes to something other than work. 

                I never pictured pining after a woman who would likely never want me back. Not if she really took the time to know the real me.  

                So, no, I won’t be meeting Lois at McGuinty’s, because even if I wanted to, _which I do_ , she has no idea who I really am. On any level. She thinks I’m the sweet, quiet, Clark from work who writes well but keeps to himself. She thinks I’m harmless and kind.

                To some degree that’s accurate. And to some it’s entirely not.

                I’m also Superman. I’m the man, the _alien_ , who rushes into danger and picks up cars with his bare hands. I’m the guy who can fly so fast I break the sound barrier and the one who, if he loses his temper, can literally kill another person just by looking at them wrong. I have to be in control at all times, or someone dies. I have to understand the very molecules of my tissues so I don't rip an arm off when I only meant to shake a hand. So I don't crush a skull when I only meant to taste someone's lips but got carried away.

                I’m _dangerous._

I'm an  _alien._

                I lie about who I am on a daily basis and am damn good at it. I don't think that's a good quality to have. And I shouldn't want to bring someone into that, no matter how much I get weakened by my own need for human contact. Romantically, that might never be possible.

Sometimes, on nights like this, when the days are long and the loneliness threatens to eat me alive, I remember what my father tried to drum into me. He wanted me to be safe. He wanted to protect me. But he also wanted to protect others. Because I’m not human. Because if I make a mistake or slip in my concentration, even for one second, someone might die. It’s something I try to never forget. It’s something I remind myself of frequently when the temptation to draw someone in becomes strong and stinging.

                Lois doesn’t really want what I am, because she doesn’t know. She can’t know.

                Superman has enemies and has a temper. Clark is a pushover who stutters over his words and blushes at the drop of a hat. I’m both those men and I can’t imagine trying to explain that to someone else. So, I don’t. I avoid. And I seclude and when it gets really bad, sometimes I don the red and blue and simply fly high over the pretty blue ball the Earth makes and remind myself of what and who I am. And why, I do what I do.

                Sometimes, I take the pills that are prescribed for Clark and will them to work for the depression that still plagues and frustrates me and I hide for a few days in my apartment like a recluse with my DVDs and my blankets and snacks. I hide from the world, because it feels like the world doesn't really want me. Not  _all_ of me.

                Tonight, I wish I were just Clark. I wish I could go to the bar and have a drink. Maybe share a chaste kiss with Lois, if she’d let me, and then shyly ask her out if she were willing. I wish I weren’t wearing the cape beneath my clothes, ready to be called to action at any moment. I wish I didn't nitpick and shred every one of my motives and then second-guess my actions with the same rabid tendencies. 

                “Clark?”

                I blink up from my desktop and have to double take when I see a familiar face smiling down at me. That face shouldn't be here. Least of all at this time of night.

                “Mr. Wayne?”

                He lifts a brow, mock insult curving his mouth, “It’s not that late Kent. How long have you been here anyways? You look a little frayed around the edges.”

                I settle heavily back into my office chair and risk a glance over the cubicles to see that hardly anyone is left. It’s mostly just me and Bruce. Me and Batman. I’m more grateful than I can say that he’s here. He can’t know I’ve been wallowing for the last hour, but it feels like somehow, he does. He always does. Bat-sense or surveillance, I like that he hovers, just the same. He tries to pretend that's not what he does. But what we both know it is. 

                Batman’s frightening when he wants to be. Even when I can only catch glimpses of him beneath the mask of Bruce Wayne. But he’s become a friend over the last five years. Maybe my only true one.

                “Almost thirteen hours.”

                "Jesus Clark."

                I shrug, "Deadline. I stalled on a article and I have to finish," I sigh loudly for effect and watch as it has none on Bruce, "Speaking of, I need to finish. You are a distraction."

                "Let me talk to Perry. This is ridiculous."

                "Absolutely not. I'm nearly finished. And this is my job. Just because you own the company, doesn't mean you get to interfere. We've talked about this."

                Bruce looks absolutely petulant at my mentioning it, and he stalks away from me with a mumbled curse. Kryptonian at that. I snort in amusement, but quickly dive back into the article. I'm finished with a hasty re-edit when Bruce reappears with two cups of something steaming and smelling like elixir from the Gods. He doesn't automatically offer me the second cup, so I let him stew as I close up my briefcase and shut down the computer. When I've slipped into my trench and am walking quietly beside him to the bank of elevators he sighs moodily then hands me the second cup. 

                 "Thank you," I grin cheekily over the lid, then take a long happy sip of the tea. It tastes delicious and extra sugary. Bruce must be feeling charitable for him to buy me a favorite. Or he wants a favor. Strangely, I'm too pleased with the tea to care. 

                  He says nothing of why he showed up at the planet out of the blue until we're halfway down the block and I'm getting ready to hail a taxi. Bruce stops me with a stern scowl and then digs around in his pocket for his phone. A moment later, he's hailed Alfred for the car and I'm climbing into the backseat without preamble. Then he levels me with his clear gray eyes and flashes me a tight-lipped smile that screams trouble. And now, I do tense, because Bruce never does that, unless it's trouble. He never has that look in his eyes, unless he's about to ask too big of a favor. 

                   "Oh God, just spit it out already Bruce."

                   Bruce growls low and threatening and it has absolutely no impact on me. I've known him for too long. "I need you to take someone for me."

                   "Take someone...watch them? Imprison them? What?"

                   Bruce shifts in the leathery seats and looks so uncomfortable, I almost break his silent rule of no touching just to offer him a hand of support. I've never seen him look so out of sorts. So, out of his element. 

                   "My son. Damian."

                   "Wait, wait--you're son? You already have a son. Dick and then--" the one we never speak about, "And Tim. Who's Damian?"

                   "He's my biological son. And Talia just dropped him off on my doorstep. I need you to take him for a few days while everything gets sorted. I need your help."

                   I blink at him, feel absurdly stupid and then rub my eyes to see if Bruce's scowling visage will clear away and this will all be dream. But he's still there. Still asking me to take his son in for him like this is a normal request. "But, he's your son. Shouldn't he be home, with you?"

                   "Yes. In time. He--has strong feelings towards me at present and has tried to run away on multiple occasions. I can't have him do that. I've thought about this and the only solution I can think of, is to give us both a break."

                   "How long has he been home?"

                   "Ten days."

                   I open my mouth to say something, change my mind, then go with something else. "And he's run away how many times?"

                  "Six times," Bruce hisses, his hands fisting lethally on the leather. I can understand now why he thinks they both need a break. But still, this is the most unorthodox thing the Bat has ever asked me, let alone Bruce. And with a child that's only just been brought into Bruce's world? It seems almost cruel to Damian. 

                   "He would want to stay with me?"

                   "He would want," Bruce pauses, teeth grinding, "to be away from me. However, that happens. I can trust you to make sure he stays."

                   I smirk, "Because I'm fast?"

                   Bruce returns the smirk, "Something like that. Will you help me? A week. Maybe two. We need to breathe and I need help. I'm down to my last straw."

                   I don't see why not. It isn't as though I've anything else going on. My love life is nill. My social, equally empty. After all, how much trouble could a child cause me, Superman? I think I can handle him. 

                   "Alright Bruce. When do you want to bring him over?"

                   "As soon as you'll take him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for being a little slow in updating. I'm hoping to get out at least a chapter a week. Thanks for reading!  
> Also, there will be another POV, but not for a couple more chapters. Then we get to see inside Lois' mind:)

**Clark**

               “Bruce, what the hell have you gotten me into?”

                “Clark, I don’t—”

                “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you arrogant jerk. You said nothing. _Nothing_ , about the fact that Damian wasn’t a normal child. I mean, oh my God Bruce, what have you gotten me into?”

                “Clark—” a long weary sigh over the phone, “I’m sorry. I should have mentioned something—”

                “Damn right you should have. He’s from the League of Assassins. A-ssass-ins. Really, Bruce? Really? How the hell did it slip your mind that your kid can kill and has killed with his bare hands? He’s a killer.”

                “Not anymore.”

                “He’s you. Fun-size. You ambushed me.”

                “I—maybe I did. I’m sorry.”

                I’m growling into the phone as my head beats a staccato tune to the pulse of my heart. I’ve been awake for forty-eight hours. And it’s been some of the worst hours of my life. “I can’t believe you did this to me. This kid is a menace.”

                “He needs guidance and a steady hand, that’s all. Given time—”

                “Time, I don’t have. He’s with me. Now. And he tore apart my apartment.”

                There is a brief pause. One I know Bruce is using to come up with something better to say to me. He had to know this phone call was coming and just decided whatever flack he got, was worth it. After meeting Damian, I suppose I understand.

                I wouldn’t have taken the kid on, had I known what I was dealing with. Who in their right mind would?

                “I’ll pay for any damages.” I can hear Bruce rubbing his forehead, feel his unease through the phone but that doesn’t stop me. The man has it coming. He deliberately kept pertinent information about his son from me. He kept information that would have made my job a lot easier at the start if I wasn’t literally flying blind. If Bruce were in front of me, I’d throttle him. Which is why I’m doing this over the phone.

                “I had to take him to the fortress.”

                “What?”

                “That’s right. He got away from me. Three times. Me, Superman. He got away from me. And this last time, he broke my front door so I decided we needed something more secure. Now, we’re at the fortress and he’s in a holding cell.”

                “A holding cell…”

                “Yes. I have them. And your son, is in one. And I don’t want to hear one word of protest out of you. Not. One. Word.”

                “I wasn’t going to give you—”

                “Good,” I suck in a calming breath and try to make my voice come out evenly on the next bit, “I need details Bruce. I want to know more. Now.”

                Bruce goes quiet for so long over the phone I’m not sure if he hung up or not. Then he huffs an irritated breath out, “You already know everything pertinent.”

                I laugh acerbically, “I thought I did. Now I want everything. Even the stuff you don’t think matters. Start with Talia. How did you meet? Who is she? Why did you think having a child with her was a good idea?”

                “It’s personal Clark.”

                “So is asking someone to watch your kid for a couple weeks.”

                Bruce makes an annoyed noise, but it lacks enough heart to be really irritated. He knows I won’t give in. He also knows the only way to shut me up is to give me what I want. And I want answers.

                “I met Talia by accident through the League. Her father is Ras al Ghul. We hit it off to some degree,” Bruce pauses, his voice going tight, “I’m not going into all the ins and outs of this, but she got pregnant—I didn’t know about it. She showed up almost two weeks ago and surprised me with Damian. She left him at the manor and said he was safer with me. I don’t know more than that. End of story. Happy?”

                I blink, sort through the rapid fire answering of my questions and feel an odd hiccup of uncertainty beneath my ribs. “How do you know he’s yours?”

                “What?”

                “What if she lied about the paternity of Damian?”

                Bruce actually growls over the phone in response. “You have eyes Clark. That boy is mine.”

                Yes. Damian resembles Bruce. Scarily so. But still, the entire things reeks of fishy manipulative lying behavior. It makes me think there is a lot more that Bruce isn’t telling me and I’m not certain I like not knowing. This has already been a living nightmare.

                “Fine. I can agree he looks like you. But Bruce, he’s out of control.”

                “Of course, he is. He was raised by assassins. He doesn’t know any different and his mother—” Bruce sucks in an angry breath, “His mother just dumped him on a stranger’s doorstep with hardly an explanation. He’s in a terrible position.”

                “Yes,” it’s true. I can see that. It makes it easier to be understanding about the mess he made of my apartment, but still…I’m not exactly rushing to be the kid’s friend either. “I could use suggestions. What does he like? Is there anything you can think of that might help me with him? I’m obviously not doing well here.”

                “I would come stay at Fortress and help you but—”

                “No. You were right in giving him space. The kid doesn’t want you anywhere near him. I’ve managed to glean that much.”       

                “Yes, I know.”

                “Maybe I’ll take him to the farm.”

                “To Kansas? With Ma and Pa Kent?” Bruce sounds horrified at the idea. No doubt, he’s having visions of his son chopping up chickens and murdering barn cats. But I’ve seen more than once how the clean open air of the farm can help a person’s soul. It’s worth a try.

                “Where else? It’s open. There’s hardly anywhere to run that I can’t catch him. And my mother will kill him with kindness. It’s the best I got.”

                Bruce pauses, there are shuffling papers over the line and the sound of someone mumbling something further away. He must still be at the office. “Fine. Alright. Keep me updated. And call anytime.”

                “You know I will.”

                “And Clark?”

                “Yes?”

                “Thanks. This—means a lot to me.”

                “Of course.”

                I hang up and stride back down the long glossy white hall I just exited and find myself staring down a nine-year old who’s got his nose turned up at a forty-five-degree angle with the nastiest sneer I’ve ever seen. If looks could kill…

                “Did you tell Father where you’ve put me? His son?”

                “As a matter of fact, I have. I just got off the phone with him.”

                Damian’s sneer fades a little as uncertainty makes him less cocky. I’d like to smack that look off his face. But I’m not about to stoop to this kid’s level and start hitting back. Not just yet anyways.

                “And?”

                I shrug, “He’s in agreement with me. If I can’t keep track of you in Metropolis, then this will have to do.”

                Damian’s mouth falls open and he visibly pales. “What?”

                “You get to stay here till he’s ready to take you back. Guess that means you better make yourself comfy. I’ll bring in supper in a couple of hours.”

                “But—”

                I lift a brow, aware my expression leaves no room for argument. We both know my patience wore thin about twenty-four hours ago and he’s been treading on thin ice since. But this is the first time I’ve seen his snotty exterior break even a little. He looks—worried. He looks a little more like a vulnerable child behind the thin Kryptonian wall and less like a hellion.

                “Never mind.”

                “If you don’t say it, I can’t help you, Damian.”

                “It’s just—” Damian looks over his shoulder and a little shiver wracks his frame, “It’s cold in here.”

                “Is it?”

                Damian snorts, “Yes, alien. It appears I am not as thick-skinned as some of the other prisoners you’ve housed here.”

                “You are my first prisoner actually.”

                “I am?”

                I smile down at him and am rewarded with a sneer that screams how much he finds me repugnant. It warms me. Just a little. And maybe it’s petty to know I’m getting under his skin as much as he’s managed to get under mine. But I’m sleep deprived and hungry and in a foul mood. I figure it’s fair. Come morning, I’ll working on being the adult again. But for now, I’m going to enjoy this minor victory. Then get some sleep.

                Besides, the child has to be getting tired as well. If I wasn’t sleeping, then he wasn’t. And no matter who you are, sleep is imperative to survive. Alien or human.

                We all have needs that cannot be ignored or wished away.

                “I’ll get you a blanket and warm up the room.”

                Damian spins on his heel then stomps over to the cell’s cot. I know for a fact that it’s hard as a rock and leaves much to be desired. I only linger long enough to see him fold both arms across his thin frame and grumble under his breath. He’s lucky I don’t understand any Arabic. Because I’m pretty sure he’s cussing me out.

                I don’t offer Damian any company after I get him a blanket and a bowl of soup. And he doesn’t appear to want any. Which is just fine. It isn’t as if I am still punishing him for the damage he did to my apartment. Much.  

                I have travel arrangements to make anyways. I need to call my parents and see how they’ll feel about having a guest within the next day or two. I also need to call Perry and make an excuse for my absence at work. Chasing a story, a family emergency, or personal time off. I’m not sure which I’ll use yet. Bruce wanted a week. Maybe two. It’s only been forty-eight hours. I’ll need a more long term excuse to get away with it.

                And then there’s Lois.

                It isn’t as if she needs to be informed of my whereabouts and what I’m doing. But she’s texted me a couple of times, asking where I am and if I’m sick. I had to take the day off for obvious reasons, but I only managed to come up with the tired excuse of being sick. Something I never, ever, actually am.

                I don’t have too high of expectations about the text. She texted out of concern for a co-worker. And nothing more. But I still feel the tell-tale flutter of nerves and excitement when I see her name on my phone. Which makes me feel all the more pathetic for my responding to her at all.

                Lois does not have an interest in Clark Kent. In Superman, possibly. I’ve seen the way she looks at me when I wear the red and blue and happen to save her from the many catastrophes she falls into. But Clark Kent, no. So, I need to keep my distance emotionally. And I should ignore the texts.

                But I don’t.

                I respond. We chat a little about how I’m feeling a bit better but will be taking the next week off work. She asks dutifully why, and I decide recklessly to say it’s a family deal. Some Kent farm emergency. An absolute lie. Then she wishes me well and I opt-out of the communication by saying I need to go to bed.

                It’s only six o’clock at night. I try not to cringe at the way I make myself look.

                She responds with a smiley face. And a heart.

                A heart.

                My chest does a little roll and clench and I have to stifle the urge to respond again. To ask myself what that extra little emoji could mean, because, it _has_ to mean something, yes?

                No. It means nothing. She’s Lois. She doesn’t see how that might, possibly, _maybe_ , be misconstrued by a man who’s hopelessly crushing on her. She would see it as being friendly and sweet. Especially when sent to her sick dweeby co-worker. Yes, that’s what it means.

                I purposefully put my phone down on a table, face down, and ignore it for the rest of the night. I make rounds in the fortress before actually going to sleep, checking on Damian, who merely lifts a brow at me, ordering my security bots to be on high alert—just in case. When it’s all said and done, I’m still the guy who’s going to sleep just after nine.

                I reason with myself that it’s because I have a long day ahead. And I’ll need all of my energy to deal with Damian. But it’s really not. I’m a creature of habit. I’m boring and my body clock is set to go to bed at the same time each night.

                It shouldn’t bother me anymore than the realization that I’m still wondering about that stupid heart emoji just before falling asleep. But it does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for taking so stinking long to get this updated for you all. I honestly have no excuse, except that I get busy and if I don't have the muse, it won't happen. I'm going to try and get the fourth chapter up much faster. Thanks for your patience!

**Lois**

I like Kent.

                Not in the hot and bothered way I might drool over the quarterback for the Gotham Knights, but I like him. He’s a little shy and a lot quiet. Tall, swims in his suits, and a total klutz. Which is kind of cute. In a nerdy and totally appropriate way.

                He has a great laugh, big blue eyes that are far too often hidden behind glasses and keeping his chin tucked, and he always, always holds the door open for me when we leave together from work.

                Clark Kent is the ultimate gentleman and exactly opposite of everything I usually go for. Which is why I figure it could work.

                Plus, he can write. He takes his job seriously and can pump out an article with enough finesse to make it look polished while still holding onto his own voice. Which is something that above all else, I respect. I admire it even. Because there aren’t many like Kent and I left in the newspaper world. Especially as we’re being elbowed out by the bloggers and the YouTube sensationalists. The news isn’t what it used to be. Which is a damned shame.

                But Kent is a good writer. A great one, actually. And he’s a traditionalist in every sense of the word. He’s a _good_ guy. Maybe a little plain and a little too sweet. But good. Which is what I think I’m finally willing to realize I may need.   

                I’ve been on the dating hamster wheel for years. And as fun as it can be, it’s an exhausting place to be. And no, I don’t need a man to be happy. But it sure as hell is nicer to have one. I like having company when I get home from work that isn’t in the form of a cat or a fish blinking inanimately at me. I like having living breathing, warm company. Sue me that I want sex on the regular and with someone that could make me laugh too.

                The fact that I’m also thirty-three and still single is another deciding factor. I want kids. I want the picket-fence to go along with the career I’ve spent the last decade building. I figure it’s time to settle down and get down to business if I’m going to make that happen. Maybe those aren’t the most noble of reasons to pursue a relationship, but I figure they are honest. Which is more than a lot of people are about it. People don’t want to end up alone.

                I’m no different. Kent seems like the kind of guy to stay till death doeth part. I need that in my life.

                And since I’m such a forward-thinking woman, I figure it won’t come as a surprise to Clark if I’m the one to ask. I mean, he can’t be so oblivious as to not have noticed that I’ve been dropping hints left and right of my interest. I know he’s a bit of a daydreamer, but he’s also not stupid. I’ve invited him for drinks a handful of times—all of which he declined. But I did it in a way that it could be construed as definitely benign friendship. Just in case. I was still toeing the line.

                I’ve started texting him too. But still, just at the line of possibly not more than friendly. And if Kent is anything like myself, he’ll be analyzing the hell out of every goddamn emoji I shoot his way. Which will only make it easier when I do drop the little bomb I’ve got planned on him.

                Though I do have to say whatever he’s got going on with his family threw my plans a little. I wanted to ask him out on Friday, casual and friendly, but with no mistaking my intents this time. But he won’t be in the office till next week.

                “Lane, if you don’t get me that article in the next twenty minutes I’m going to bust a cap in your ass.”

                “That’s a little extreme, Chief,” I grin over my computer, making a few final adjustments before shooting if off to the copy editor’s desk, “Done.”

                “Good. I’ve got another story for you. I want you on it. With Kent missing you’ll have to do some of his work.”

                “That’s fine.” And it is. I don’t mind working harder. In fact, I border on workaholic but I don’t imagine any journalist worth their salt doesn’t. Another reason Clark is such a good match for me. I can’t count how many times I’ve seen him staying just as late in the office as me. “Where to?”

                “Gotham. Word has spread that the billionaire prince has another son. This one biological.”

                “Love child?”

                “Not sure, who the hell knows? That’s what I’m paying you for. Get over there and get an interview. You know the guy, don’t you?”

                “Uh, well, sort of,” I think Perry is thinking of Kent again. Because Bruce Wayne and I are only acquaintances. “I’ll see what I can do.”

                “Bring Cat. She’s good at digging up dirt.”

                “Oh, Perry—”

                “Don’t argue with me.”

                I sigh, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough Cat will hear me a few cubicles down. It isn’t that I don’t like the woman. But I prefer to work alone. And Cat doesn’t just run the gossip column for the Planet, she’s gossip personified 24/7. “Alright.”

 

**Damian**

 

                I wish I could say that I hate where the alien takes me. But I can’t.

                The Kent farm is one huge wide-open space of flat land, and it goes on and on, miles of never-ending fields that remind me of a desert. It causes mild twinges of homesickness that make no sense to me. A warrior does not have any particular attachment to any singular location. I can be just as functional of an asset here, on the farm, as I could be with Mother, wherever it is she’s gone to.

The crops are only half grown but they shine like green emeralds beneath the beat of the sun and I find myself taking in big lungfuls of the alfalfa and wheat as I work. They are clean smells. Unique and different than any I’ve had the opportunity to experience before. So, I don’t fault myself for liking them or using their soothing scents to my advantage.

                The chores Kent has assigned me felt like a punishment two days ago. But I like having something to do with my hands and I like sweating for a purpose. So, I’ve settled into them. It isn’t as though I could escape form this little Kansas prison without the alien taking notice. Even when he’s not near, I can sense him watching me. Which is something to be respected.

                I walk stiffly towards the chicken coop with the frayed basket Martha Kent offered me when I woke, and I find the chickens exactly where they should be. Feathers float lazily amidst dust moats and chicken feed dust as I work to collect the offerings. The eggs are warm on my hands and occasionally I stop to soothe frayed nerves from the hens as they squawk their disdain over my pilfering. I understand their upset. I wouldn’t particularly like it either.

                When I’m finished, I meander over to the barns where the Kent’s horses reside and immediately move to the first stall to start mucking it out. I’m familiar with the task and it brings me great peace to do it. I am so relaxed in my work, I hardly lift a brow when the alien comes to join me.

                He stands silently watching me for the first several minutes and it is easy to ignore him. He might be large and emanate a slightly—unsettling—amount of power, but he is easily beaten with cunning as stealth. Like any other. I merely need more time to study him to determine his weaknesses.

                “Have you come to inspect my work?” I ask softly, hefting a pile of manure into the wheelbarrow I’ve pushed close.

                Kent shifts his stance, sighs, then stuffs both hands in his pockets. “No. I came to check on you. You’ve been quiet.”

                “Am I required to talk during my imprisonment?”

                “That isn’t what this is supposed to be.”

                “No?” I ask, turning to lift an arrogant brow at the alien. He has the grace to color a little. Though I don’t know why. He’s been nothing but a consistent thorn in my side from the moment Father dropped me off here. “You put me in your jail at the Fortress.”

                “Only overnight.”

                I shrug, “And I cannot leave here. How is this not imprisonment? I am being kept against my will.”

                “Damian, your mother left you with your father for safe-keeping. You’re only with me now because you keep trying to run away.”

                I nod, turning back to my work, but there’s a ball of lead in my stomach and my throat feels like it’s closing. I am aware that this means I am emotionally compromised. I can do nothing to stop it. “Father did not want me. I did not see the point in remaining where I am neither wanted or needed. I thought it best to return to Mother immediately.”

                “That’s not true. He wants you.”

                I swivel on my booted heel and scowl darkly at Kent. “He didn’t even know I existed until a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t want me.”

                “That isn’t fair to him.”

                “I don’t care.”

                I sound childish. Mother would be disappointed. Shoveling more frantically, I bite my lip to quell the trembling of it and put my back into mucking once more. I expect the alien to leave now, because I’ve clearly dismissed him. But he doesn’t. He remains like a silent obnoxious wraith until my shoulders are so tight they hurt, and I want to whip around and scream at him to leave me be.

                 “Leave alien,” I hiss and it comes out strangled.

                “Damian, I’m not going anywhere.”

                “Fine,” I snap, tossing down the shovel. I try to leave the stall but I come face-first with a solid wall of muscle and stop abruptly. “Get out of my way.”

                “I don’t think you should be alone.”

                “I’m not a child. I can handle myself.”

                He frowns at that, face scrunching up like I’m a puzzle that makes no sense. Father’s face had done much the same during our dealings. I don’t like it. “But you are a child. And none of this is fair to you.”

                “Life isn’t fair.”

                Kent tips his head, “No, no it’s not.”

                Something about the way he is looking at me, makes me feel small and strange. It makes me feel like he actually cares and that makes me more angry. Because I’ve done my best to keep my emotions in check but at this moment, I feel perilously close to losing control. And that is something an assassin does not do. They are ruthless and regimented. Emotion is their enemy.

                “I need help out of the back forty. Would you be willing to help mend fencing? It’s hot, dirty work?”

                I snort, and it comes out watery. I know Kent sees how close I am to crying. He says nothing about it—and I’m grudgingly grateful. Perhaps the alien can be an ally. “You can’t do it yourself?”

                “I could,” he nods, “But hard work helps sort out feelings. And you look like you could use a little sorting.”

                I have nothing else to do. Nearly finished with chores already, I still crave work to do. I crave the hard schedule my Mother and Grandfather drilled into me. I crave the sting of muscle and drip of sweat. It has been too long since I felt it and this hard, dirty, work Kent speaks of could be the ticket I’ve been needing.

                “Perhaps.”

                Kent smiles, all charm and absurd softness. I scowl in return. “Finish up then. I’ll meet you at the truck in thirty. I’ll have Mama pack us a lunch. It’ll take the whole day.”

 

                Kent did not disappoint.

                I am weary, down to the bone. My arms can barely lift over my head to strip from my sweat-drenched clothes. My legs shake and threaten to dump me flat when I climb into the shower and groan beneath the spray of heat. But I feel _good._

                I feel so much better that I allow a smile to grace my lips as I scrub my scalp and soap my limbs. When I’m finished and ready to sleep, I even find myself wondering for a flicker of a moment what Father would think of my work here. I don’t know him at all. My Mother kept his identity from me until only hours before our meeting. My point of reference is thin and only of the Batman. And I understand that persona is not actually the man beneath it. So, I don’t know.

But for the first time, I wonder. I wonder if I were to try and learn him, would he be like Kent? Would he be kind and nearly smothering in his affections? Or would he be harsh and demanding? Would he be proud, or would he be like Mother and find my successes ineffectual and useless?

                Does it even matter? Any of it?

                My smile fades and I stare vacantly up at the ceiling of the bedroom I have been placed. I could try and escape again. Kent might not catch me until I reach the nearest town. I might be able to get on a bus and then—

                Where would I go? I do not know where Mother is. Even if I wanted to find her, which of course I do, did she not leave me with Father without even saying goodbye? Did she not dump me, like unwanted garbage at his doorstep with nary a word of endearment? I understand that words of love or affirmation are not needed in our line of work. I understand too, that she was not raised, nor was I for that matter, to want it. But I find myself wondering how nice it might sound to hear the words, ‘I love you.’ Would they feel as good as I imagine it? Would they soothe the ache beneath my breastbone that stings and remains no matter what I do?

                My hands fist atop the coolness of the sheets and I have to work to school my breathing to calm. I can only do as Grandfather taught. Stay in the here and now and train. Discipline my mind. Focus on the facts and what can be done. At present, nothing can be done. Nothing at all.

                It is useless making myself angry over feelings that should not exist in the first place.

 

**Lois**

Bruce Wayne is late. When has the playboy not been?

                My knee jiggles incessantly beneath the conference table as I tap loudly with my pen and I have to practice slow breaths not to stand and start pacing. I’ve never been good at sitting still for any length of time. But I’m especially not good at being forced to wait. And Bruce Wayne has kept me waiting in his glossy conference room for the last thirty minutes.

                I don’t appreciate having my time wasted.

                “I’m sure he just got caught up with something important,” Cat murmurs, doodling on her notepad.

                “What? Banging his secretary?”

                Cat snorts, “Maybe she’s a very hot secretary.”

                “Maybe.”

                I know I’m not being exactly charitable, but Mr. Wayne has a reputation that he’s earned. I’ve seen him at more than once function with some piece of eye-candy he’s draping himself all over.

                When he finally strides into the room with a breezy smile and a distant flicker of recognition in his gaze, I’ve graduated from irritation to anger. He’s kept us waiting for forty-five minutes. I understand the man can be busy, what with sticking his tongue down the next model’s throat, but I’ve got better things to do than sit around with my thumb up my ass. I’m a journalist, not a gossip columnist. I take my job seriously.  

                “Ladies,” he smiles blandly, “I’m so sorry to have kept you both waiting. Staff meeting ran long.”

                “Oh?” Cat smiles, “That sounds dreadfully boring.”

                “It was. How can I help you both?”

                I straighten, forcing the ire out of tone because it won’t get me anywhere and offer him my own carefully neutral look. “We wanted to get your statement about the allegations you’ve got a love-child running around?”

                If I expected Wayne to look surprised, I would have been sadly disappointed. He looks bored. Sighing, he folds both hands on the table, “At this time I am not making any statement about the rumors involving a biological child of mine. I’m sure you can understand it’s a touchy topic.”

                “So, it’s true?”

                His right eye twitches. “I am not releasing any statements at this time, Ms. Lane. Is that all you came to discuss?”

                “How do your other children feel about the new addition?”

                I flick a glance at Cat and see she’s still doodling, but smiling pleasantly enough. She might look small and sweet but she’s as vicious as they come. You’d have to be to write the gossip column and enjoy it. This sort of thing usually isn’t my cup of tea.

                “My children are not a source of news for you. Nor should they ever be.”

                Cat shrugs, “News doesn’t discriminate.”

                “If you try and publish an article about them, or any of the rumors you’ve heard floating around I will slap a sanction and demand a withdrawal on your asses before you can say, ‘what the hell just happened?’ Is that discriminant enough for you?”

                For a moment, I think I actually see true fatherly protectiveness flash in his gaze and it’s a good look on Wayne.

                “Cat,” I murmur, unable to take my eyes of Wayne as he’s glaring with enough venom even Cat is starting to squirm, “We should leave before we hit rush-hour traffic.”

                “Yes,” he agrees, deadly soft, “you should go. But Ms. Lane, if you’d stay a moment. I’d like to speak with you. Alone.”

                I lift a brow, “I’m sorry?”

                “Yes,” the venom slips away and playboy glides perfectly into place on his face. His smile is plastic and just a tad on the edge of frightening in its intensity. “I have something private I needed to speak with you about.”

                “Alright,” I say carefully, looking at Cat who’s gone a shade paler, “I’ll meet you downstairs?”

                “Yeah, sure.”

                Cat strides out of the conference room leaving me alone with Wayne and for a strange moment, I’m actually afraid to be alone with him. It doesn’t make much sense, as the man doesn’t particularly scream dangerous with those big gray eyes and that wide handsome smile. But there is something thick and threatening in the air at present and I don’t like it.

                “OK, you’ve got me alone Wayne. What do you want?” I don’t see the point in mincing words. I’m feeling a little off balance with this surprisingly intimate request.

                “Yes, I just wanted to make something else clear to you before we part ways,” he reaches up with manicured hand to straighten his tie, but its already perfectly straight, “I am sure you are aware that Clark Kent and I are friendly, yes?”

                “I am aware you two have formed a friendship over the last couple of years. Though I’ve no idea why.” Or what he sees in Wayne.

                “Sometimes I don’t either,” he smirks, and it’s the first genuine expression I’ve seen from him aside from the feral sneer he’d offered Cat. “But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I care about him. We’re friends. And I take that very seriously. I wanted you to know this, because it matters a great deal to me when someone hurts my friends. Do you understand?”

                I shift uncomfortably, “Not exactly.”

                His eyes find mine and hold. The gray is not soft or beckoning. It is lethally sharp and so intense I feel the shiver rush up my spine and prickle the hairs on the back of my neck. “I know you are interested in Clark Kent on an intimate level. I also know that you have a certain type and that Clark is certainly not it. He’s homegrown and soft. He’s nothing like what you normally go for. Generally, I stay out of Kent’s love life. But I think I would be remiss on not informing you that if you hurt him, if you do anything to break him, even a little, I will respond in kind.”

                “Are you seriously threatening me, Mr. Wayne?”

                He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. “Yes.”

                It should be laughable that he’s threatening me. I’ve faced down far more serious and lethal threats. But there is something absolutely chilling about this one. Because I can see that he means it. And that he’s more than capable of whatever retribution he would deem fit.

                Which brings about a few other poignant questions. Who is Bruce Wayne really beneath all the veneer and gloss? What is he like at home? Is he as intense with every personal relationship? And how does he behave with his children?

                My journalist brain is exploding with intrigue.

                I’m more flustered than I can ever remember being before. This confrontation was not what I was expecting, when he’d asked me to stay behind. To say that I’m stunned, is a bit of an understatement. But in a strange way, I’m also—pleased?—that Clark has a friend who cares so deeply for his well-being.

                “Not that it’s any of your business,” because it certainly is not, though I’m strangely compelled to tell him anyways, “but I am interested in Kent _because_ he’s not my usual type. He’s a good guy. And that’s what I’m looking for.”

                Wayne’s eyes flicker over my face, a cool assessment that leaves me wanting to fold my arms and snarl. I don’t. For some reason, I allow his behavior to pass unchecked. It isn’t like me to do it, but I’ve got too many questions rattling around in my head to focus. When he appears finished, Wayne sighs and any pretense of danger evaporates. His smile flashes easily and I have to double take at the sudden change. It’s alarming.

                Lethal protector to airhead billionaire in a flash.

                I’m more than intrigued. I’m fascinated. There’s a story here. I just don’t know where.

                “Good. Then we have nothing more to discuss.”

                “I—” I frown at him, then shake my head, “Mr. Wayne, you’re something else.”

                “That’s what they tell me,” he winks, stuffing a hand into his pocket in a perfect GQ cover shot pose. “Do you want me to escort you down to the lobby?”

                “No,” I gather my notepad and pen. “No, I can handle it.”

                I might not have gotten anything out of Wayne about the kid, but I certainly got something. I’m just not sure what yet.  


End file.
